I’m watching the crews in the plaza out in front of Brookfield Plaza take down the Christmas tree decorations. In an hour, it’ll be an empty space once again.
It’s a metaphor for January, really: the empty aftermath of Christmas. The celebrations, the lights, the shiny baubles, the pretty presents. It’s over. Reality swamps back in, flooding out the joy and cheer. Like returning from vacation, all that’s left is cold, harsh reality.
In a way, I think Christmas in the Southern Hemisphere (I’m looking at you, Australia) must be better, because even through Chrissy is done, it’s still warm. For us northerners, it’s another three months of cold and dark. And there’s really nothing in there to cheer us up (unless you’re wise enough to go south for a vacation).
February is, at least, short; January has 31 days. And by the time we get to March, it’s brighter longer, so even if it’s cold, we get more light.
January is truly the saddest month.
